My husband calls my son to help pull the trash bins to the curb. They look so much alike. A mini version and a man version of the same person. Same skin. Same hair. Same lips.
My daughter is upstairs playing in her dollhouse, her homework all complete and folded up in her backpack. As her imagination takes over, I smile quietly to myself, happy that my middle schooler still likes to play. Wondering how long these days will last.
I walk over to the vacuum cleaner I have a habit of leaving out. I bend down, pick it up, and put it away. I hate putting away the vacuum.
As I hang the vacuum hose on the hook my husband installed to make our tiny utility closet less of a nightmare, I am hit with an overwhelming surge of gratitude. Of peace. Of love.
This family, this house, this life I am living—it is everything I never dreamed I could have.
Sure, it’s stressful. It’s chaotic. It’s insane most of the time.
But in these rare moments of domestic tranquility, I feel so lucky.
I have a family. A beautiful, crazy, messy, perfectly imperfect family.
How amazing is that?